


A Ransom for M. le Maire

by AliceBee



Category: Les Misérables (TV 2018)
Genre: Abduction, Beating, Case Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Knifeplay, M/M, Montreuil-sur-Mer, OC death, Passing Mention of Child Illness/Mortality, Ransom, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Rope/Breathplay, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-24 01:33:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20018065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceBee/pseuds/AliceBee
Summary: The Mayor of Montreuil falls into the hands of ruthless kidnappers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TwelveLeagues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/gifts).



**Day One**

“Ah, Montreuil-sur-Mer,” said the gentleman, their horses walking side by side on the road from Paris.

They were a day's ride out from the city. Having both left Paris at around the same time and travelling in the same direction, they had met up on the outskirts of the tiny village of Buigny-Saint-Maclou and fallen into easy conversation.

Or rather the gentleman had; M. Madeleine was content to listen and comment once in a while.

“I have heard good things are happening in the town,” the man continued.

After a long pause, searching for the right words, Madeleine said, “There is work there now.”

“A thing to be welcomed, in these trying days,” the gentleman said. “Were you in Paris long?”

“For a day or two.”

“I have spent the week. There is a new loom from England that I hope to market here. There is so much piecework here in France, this could be an opportunity for a forward-looking man. Would your business be in need of such a device?”

Madeleine thought for what he hoped was a considerate amount of time. “I cannot think so, my apologies, Monsieur.”

The man laughed heartily. “None needed, sir. None needed.”

He then began to chat about his home town of Calais, his family and his children. Normally Madeleine would have found such a conversation difficult, having little to offer in return on those subjects, but the man was so pleasant and personable, he did not seem to mind Madeleine’s slight replies which were, in honesty, little more than thinly veiled evasions.

The day had been bathed in warm sunshine. It was late May and the air was heavy with the scent of hawthorn blossom, the large clusters of flowers releasing their sweet perfume on the gentle breeze. It had been, all in all, a most agreeable morning.

It was mid-afternoon as they approached a long bend in the road which dipped down between wooded banks. However, the two men soon had to pull up their horses. A large tree had fallen across the road, its dense crown obstructing their path.

“Well, this is a sorry sight,” said his companion.

Madeleine dismounted but before he could take a step, half a dozen men emerged from the trees and surrounded them. They were armed with pistols and knives.

“Oh dear God,” the gentleman whispered.

“Stay calm,” said Madeleine, fear coiling in his stomach.

The apparent ring-leader moved towards Madeleine. Small and beetling with extravagant whiskers, he smiled dangerously.

“Let’s have your purse, then.”

Madeleine took out his money and it was instantly snatched from his hand. Having looked inside, the robber threw it to one of his men.

“What about you?” he said, addressing Madeleine’s companion. “Get down here.”

The gentleman got down off his horse and passed his purse to one of the men.

“Search 'em, lads. Anything with pockets, get it off 'em so we can have a proper look.”

One of the gang approached Madeleine with his pistol raised. He stood in front of him and levelled the weapon inches from his face. For a moment, Madeleine considered disarming him, but a glance to his left showed two more pistols were pointed towards him and his companion.

The man used the pistol to push up the brim of Madeleine’s hat until it fell off his head. He heard it hit the road and roll. From behind, another man wrenched off his coat, then the buttons of his waistcoat were ripped open and that too was pulled off his back. 

His companion had been similarly stripped to his shirtsleeves and the men were pawing through their pockets and ripping open seams. The gentleman's pocket watch and a few more francs were recovered. Their horses’ saddlebags were rifled next, but little of value was found. They then stood Madeleine and his companion next to each other, jostling them into position in the middle of the road.

“You have everything,” said Madeleine steadily. “Will you be on your way?”

“Not quite everything,” said the ringleader.

He raised his pistol and shot the gentleman from Paris through the heart. Madeleine flinched at the sound and at the shock of the sudden violence.

His companion collapsed to the ground beside him and Madeleine knelt immediately, lifting his head from the dust. He cradled the dying man, holding his hand tightly, trying to offer some small words of comfort as, struggling to speak, his gentleman took his last breaths.

When he had passed, Madeleine laid the man on the road and bowed his head. He began to pray, but before more than a few words had been spoken, Madeleine was being dragged to his feet.

His shock was giving way to anger. It was an old, familiar feeling that was boiling up inside him and it was one that scalded reason from his mind.

He pulled his arms easily free of the robber’s grasp and he turned to the murderer in fury.

“Why did you kill him? There was no reason!” he roared. “No reason!”

“None that you know of, Monsieur le Maire.” Then the ringleader mockingly bowed to him, much to the amusement of his men.

Madeleine stared and something like dread began eroding into his anger.

“Every few weeks, you do this little trip,” the man said. “One of my boys knows your town. Grew up there. Says money’s being splashed around the place like water. And you’re right in the middle of it. M. le Maire this, M. le Maire that." The man sidled closer, cocking his head up at Madeleine. "I reckon your little town will pay a pretty penny to have their Mayor back in one piece, don’t you?”

Madeleine’s arms were grabbed and forced behind his back. His wrists were bound tightly and then he was half-boosted, half-manhandled back onto his horse.

The gang retrieved their own mounts from the trees and they set off, leading Madeleine’s horse by its reins.

The heady scent of the hawthorn now hung sickly sweet and cloying in the hot afternoon air. Madeleine looked behind him, at the body of the gentleman from Paris. Two of the bandits were dragging his body into the ditch by the side of the road. A jovial man, a family man, who had wanted nothing more than some companionship on his ride home. A man who was now dead because of him. And he had not even thought to ask the man’s name. Madeleine closed his eyes and cursed himself for his thoughtlessness. 

His own situation was dire. Having seen them murder a man in the coldest of cold blood, Madeleine was under no illusion that his life was in the most extreme danger. 

The group took a path away from the road, across a field and sometime later, as the sun was beginning to set, they arrived at an abandoned farmhouse in a small clearing.

The men dismounted and he was dragged off his horse. Madeleine staggered as his feet hit the dirt. Caught and hauled upright, he was pushed and shoved into the house.

There were boards nailed over the windows and dust hung in the stale air. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could see there was a large chair near the fireplace, heavy oak with wide arms and a high back. A table stood to one side with a few chairs around it. A rough partition created a back room, where he could see a smaller table with a bench running along one wall.

Madeleine stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by the gang. Two had gone to lean on the far wall, their pistols drawn, whilst the ringleader perched on the edge of the table. There were footsteps behind him and his arms were seized. The last member of the gang stood in front of him. 

“Love fisticuffs, this lot,” said the ringleader.

Madeleine braced himself as the first punch was thrown. It hit him in the jaw, knocking his head sideways. Three more punches to the left side of his face and blood began to flow, from a cut on his cheekbone and from his mouth. Blows to his stomach doubled him over and left him gasping. The men who had been holding his arms released him and he dropped to his knees. They now joined in the beating, kicking and punching him as he lay curled on the floor, unable to protect himself.

“That’s enough for now,” said the ringleader. “Get him over here.”

Madeleine was dragged over to the table and dropped into one of the chairs. Blood dripped and spattered onto his shirt. His breathing was rapid and shallow as cracked ribs grated with every breath.

“Untie him.”

The rope around his wrists was loosened and then removed.

“Have a read of this,” said the ringleader and pushed a letter across the table.

Madeleine drew the paper to him and read the contents. It was a ransom demand addressed to the town of Montreuil. Ten thousand francs for his safe return. It was written in an uncertain, scarcely literate, almost childlike hand and Madeleine felt a strange pang of pity for the monstrous man who had written it. A quill and ink were pushed towards him.

“I thought you could sign it, with a Mayoral flourish, so to speak, so they’ll know we’ve got you.”

Madeleine dipped the quill into the ink and signed his name. He added six small dashes beneath it, three, then two, then one and then disguised them within a flowing curlicue.

“I’ve just had an idea,” said the leader. “Take your cravat off.”

Madeleine did so. The leader took it from his hand and roughly wiped some of the blood from Madeleine’s face. 

“We can put it in there,” he said, dropping it on top of the letter and folding the paper around it. “Nice little convincer, that.”

He sealed the parcel with wax and for good measure, tied some string around it. He passed the letter to one of his men. 

“Shove it under the door of the Town Hall. You know where you’re going."

He then seemed to have an idea.

"Hang on,” he said. “I’ve just had a thought. Take his horse with you. Everyone’ll know it’s his. Tie it to the door knob or something.”

His man nodded and disappeared.

Addressing the two men armed with pistols, the leader said, “Take him out for a piss then we’ll get settled down for the night.”

When he was brought back in, his arm wrapped around his cracked ribs, the leader was standing behind the large oak chair.

“Take a seat. In the big chair. You’ll be used to that.”

Madeleine sat down and his wrists were tied to the arm rests. More rope was tied above his elbows and pulled tight around the back of the chair, securing him soundly. His ankles were tied just as severely to the chair legs.

“Let’s have something to eat,” the leader said to his men and Madeleine was left in front of the fireplace, whilst they ate, drank and played cards for pennies.

He sat, staring into the blackened remnants of the previous night’s fire. There was nothing he could do. If they had only been armed with knives, he would have taken them on, but at all times there were at least two of them with pistols to hand who kept their distance. They were well drilled and seemed disciplined and Madeleine suspected this was not the first abduction they had carried out.

Sometime later, the leader scuttled over, dragging a chair over for himself. He sat down next to Madeleine.

“Not got any family, have you?”

Madeleine shook his head.

“Oh, the _town_ is your family, how lovely. Always got their hand out, though, haven’t they, family? My brother, to give you an example, spends it before he’s got it. Can’t have anything to do with him anymore. Broke my heart, him being my twin brother an all. Older than me, by nearly an hour, but here’s the thing, different birthdays.” The man nudged Madeleine’s shoulder, jolting his ribs. “Have you ever heard the like?”

“I have not,” said Madeleine, through gritted teeth.

“No, nobody has,” said the leader, indifferent to the pain he had just caused. “But my old mum, she swore to it.”

He was looking at Madeleine, his eyes glittering, the expression in them entirely at odds with his affable tone.

“Shall we get a fire going?” he asked. “Gone a bit cold.”

It hadn’t gone cold, the warmth of the day still hovered in the dusty air of the farmhouse. Nonetheless, the leader had one of his men fetch kindling and shortly a fire was crackling in the hearth.

His man went back to his game of cards, leaving the leader with Madeleine. He leaned over and began to undo the buttons at the collar of Madeleine’s shirt. He looked down at the man’s hands, his mind churning at what this action might possibly lead to.

The man reached into his boot and withdrew a dagger. Madeleine’s heart began to thud.

The man made a show of it, letting it shine in the firelight, before holding the blade in the flames for a long while. Then he lunged forward, pressing the scalding flat of the dagger into Madeleine’s neck. He jerked his head away from the searing heat, but the high backed chair meant he was unable to move away from the blade.

The man tilted the knife, so the point was now caressing Madeleine’s throat. He slowly drew it downwards, over his Adam’s apple and down into the hollow of his throat. Madeleine swallowed as the hot blade continued down his sternum, until it came to rest in the centre of his chest.

“One little push,” the man said, applying pressure until the skin puckered beneath the point. “And that would be the end of you.”

A drop of blood welled at the knife’s point, then trickled down his chest.

After holding it there for some moments, the man finally moved the knife away and replaced it in his boot. Madeleine exhaled slowly. He looked upwards and silently prayed, the searing pain of the burn a fierce stripe across his throat. It was a stark reminder of the blade that had been held there and could easily be again.

“I was thinking, you being a man of means, having your own business, where do you put all that money, eh? When you’re not chucking it round the town, I mean.”

“In the bank,” Madeleine replied, warily.

“You see, I think, we think, you’ve got a safe. Either in your factory or in your house.”

Madeleine was shaking his head. “I don’t have a safe.”

“We don’t want to have to go in there and turn them over. People might get hurt.” He let the threat work its way in before continuing. “So where is it? Is it in your factory or in your house?”

“Neither.” 

Almost all of his and the factory’s funds were in the bank. There were separate accounts for the school, infirmary and civic funds and if the man thought he could tell him how to get his hands on those, he was going to be disappointed.

“You didn’t have any keys on you. Who did you leave them with?”

“Nobody. There are no keys,” he said.

“No keys?” the man queried. “Is it one of them newfangled ones with the dials on?”

“ _What_ are you talking about?” Madeleine’s tone was sharp, a desperate edge having crept into his voice.

The man jabbed his fingers into Madeleine’s injured ribs, making him yell in pain.

“Don’t take that pissy fucking attitude with me,” the man said, leaning into Madeleine’s face. “I want the town’s money and I want your money. And you’re going to tell me how to get it.”

He pressed his hand into Madeleine’s ribs again. He cried out as the broken bones ground against each other.

“Where is it?” the ringleader asked.

Madeleine shook his head.

“Where’s your safe?” he was asked again.

When he didn’t answer, when he couldn’t answer, the leader landed a punch into his ribs. The pain was nearly overwhelming and Madeleine could only moan in reply, his body in tension against the ropes that held him. 

“Where is it?”

“We don’t have a safe,” he gasped, his voice shaking, his ribs stabbing into his side with every breath. 

The leader punched him hard, far harder than before. His side exploded with an immense pain that was impossible to deal with. The world went grey for a long, dizzying moment.

“There’s no safe, there’s no safe,” he said, his voice catching in his throat.

The ringleader leaned over him, a thoughtful frown on his face.

“Do you know what, lads?” he said. “I think I believe him.”

Madeleine’s reply was an anguished cry of relief as the man moved away. His cracked ribs were now a twisted shriek of pain. Even if they didn’t lay another finger on him, more of this mauling, ceaseless misery lay ahead.

Madeleine was brutally aware of the bitter, bitter irony of his position. That his only hope of rescue lay with Inspector Javert.

**Day Two**

The blood-stained cravat, his horse tethered at the Town Hall door, the request for flags to be lowered, these were all showy, extravagant, theatrical gestures. Everything Valjean was not.

The more Javert thought about it, the more certain he was that this was genuine. That Valjean, in his guise as the rich Mayor of Montreuil had been targeted for abduction.

 _Set a thief to catch a thief_ , thought Javert and smiled.

It was early days for him in Montreuil and it wouldn’t do to tip his hand so soon. No, he would treat this as if it were any other case and do his very best to return their beloved Mayor to the town. Besides, what satisfaction would there be in unmasking a corpse?

The ransom note was intriguing. Not the content, not the crude handwriting of the demand itself, but rather ‘Madeleine’s’ signature.

He had seen a few documents signed by the Mayor since arriving in Montreuil. His signature was fluid but unfussy and there it was, at the end of the ransom demand. Except this one had a florid paraph beneath it, all dots and sweeping loops. Javert had never seen anything like it, especially not from the official office of the Mayor. For a moment, he wondered if the it had been added by a different hand. Javert tilted the paper towards the light from the window, comparing the stiff, scratchy hand of the ransom demand with the smooth signature and scrolls of the paraph. He thought not, but needed to see more examples of Madeleine’s signature.

The sun was barely up but he took the note over to the Town Hall, where an emergency session of the council was sitting.

“Forgive my intrusion,” said Javert.

“Not at all, you are most welcome,” said Dispagne, who was chairing the meeting in Madeleine’s absence. “Please take a seat. We are all understandably shaken by the events of this morning.”

“Of course,” said Javert, inclining his head.

“May I ask, has there been any news?”

“There has not. I have been examining the ransom demand and I am drawn to the flourish below M. Madeleine’s signature.” Javert passed the note to the man next to him, who examined the note, then passed it on. It made its way around the long table and eventually back to Javert.

“Have any of you ever seen that flourish before?” he asked.

Heads were shaken and there were murmurs in the negative.

“If it is possible, can I see some further examples of his signature?”

“Why is this necessary?” Dispagne asked, his concern for Madeleine sharpening his tone. “Should we not be discussing how to gather the ransom and how to proceed once we have it?”

“All in good time, M. Deputy. There were no instructions for the delivery of the money, only that the flags of the town should be lowered once it has been gathered. So, we can be sure that further communication will be forthcoming. They are allowing several days for the funds to be collected. Until then, we have men scouting the route M. le Maire would have taken from Paris and we are watching for anything out of the ordinary in the town.

“There is something in this,” said Javert, holding up the ransom demand and tapping the paraph, “which does not sit right with me.”

As the sun rose, they untied him and took him outside so that he could relieve himself. Madeleine was then sat at the table and given some porridge and a cup of water. When he was done, he was once again tied to the large oak chair.

The ache of his ribs and the sting of the burn across his throat were a nagging drain on him. After some hours staring into the fireplace, his mind numb, his body in pain, he heard footsteps approaching and the ringleader once again drew up a chair and sat beside him.

“I’ve been thinking,” said the man and Madeleine’s heart sank.

“You haven’t got a safe. What about a strong box? You’ll have one of those.”

Madeleine closed his eyes briefly. The man was fixated.

“We have a cash box,” he replied.

There was indeed a cash box at the factory. When he was not in his office, it was locked away in the bottom drawer of his desk. Perhaps if he could point them towards such an easy target, that would satisfy the man.

“There we go. How much is in there?”

“A few hundred francs.” It paid delivery men and expenses and the like, so there was little need for any more. They had excellent credit and most of their bills were paid on account.

“No, no, no, no, no,” said the man, shaking his head in time with his words. “I’m not on about a paltry ‘few hundred francs’, M. le Maire.”

Clearly, this man would not be so easily dissuaded. Madeleine swallowed. He needed to be exceedingly careful.

“What I’m after,” the man continued, “is the strong box, the one where you’ve got thousands stashed away.”

Madeleine was searching the man’s eyes and expression. Could he know? Was there _any_ way he could know?

Could he know there was, in fact, a strong box with several thousand francs inside? It was hidden behind a panel in his home, alongside some ragged clothes and a yellow passport that had once belonged to a convict.

He had been so careful over those intervening years, so careful, so watchful, salting away small amounts only when the curtains were drawn, only when he was alone in the house. Had he got careless?

The ragged clothes and the hated passport were kept with the box so that he would never forget how far he had come. Whenever he had felt settled or secure, or felt for a moment that he was safe, he would kneel and open the panel. Usually, it would be enough just to see those things, flickering in the candlelight, a reminder brought forth from the shadows. A reminder that no matter how far he had run or how far he had risen, this was all that he was and all that he would ever be.

Kneeling there, he would always pray, he would often weep, but only occasionally would he reach out and touch those things; the rough, tattered cloth, the stiff yellow paper, the brush of them on his fingertips a particular kind of penance.

But had he become complacent? If he were to regard himself truthfully, he had. Before Javert’s arrival he had not thought to look behind the panel or put any funds in the box for a number of months.

Since becoming Mayor, he had allowed himself to relax in the smallest part. He had not wanted the position, but he had bowed to the constant pressure from the town council. That they had persisted in their cajoling after he had repeatedly turned them down meant that he had truly been accepted by them. It had pulled at something deep inside him, a yearning to belong, which was something he had not felt since he was a child.

Now it would seem he had allowed his head to be turned by the rank and the office and the responsibility. The respect and deference he was shown was like nothing he had ever experienced. It made him deeply uncomfortable, but he could not deny that to be treated with such genuine warmth was something that his soul cried out for. He had thought he had shied away from that temptation, but it would seem that he had not.

Madeleine bowed his head in shame and lied.

“There is no strong box, just as there is no safe.”

“Bullshit,” said the man.

“That is not how things are run,” said Madeleine, but that reply earned him a smack in the mouth. He tasted blood.

“I don’t care how you run things. I want to know where the money is.”

“The money,” said Madeleine, “is in the bank.”

“I’m not robbing a fucking bank.” The man stood up, irritation bristling from him. “I’ve had enough of this. Boys!” he shouted. “Let’s get him tipped over.”

The gang surrounded Madeleine and grabbed hold of the chair. They lifted it off the floor and Madeleine found himself tipped backwards. The world turned and he was staring up at roof beams. They set him down with a thud and he grimaced, the impact jarring his ribs.

“Get his boots off.”

He lay there, helpless as they loosened the ropes just enough to allow them to strip his feet bare. The ropes were re-fastened, even tighter than before. He closed his eyes and tried to prepare himself for what they were about to do to him.

The ringleader leaned over him.

“One last chance, where’s the money?”

“Beating me won’t change what I have told you.”

“We’ll see about that, won’t we?”

The whipping of the soles of his feet began and it was with the ringleader’s belt. It was a thin strip leather that snapped and snarled across the tender skin of his arches. The first blow was like a shock. He gasped and his body jolted, jerking the chair an inch across the floor. His feet curled in, trying to pull away from the next strike. When it came, it lit a fire across his flesh and despite his best efforts, it drew a cry of pain from his lips.

“There we go,” said the leader and lashed him again.

It was white and bright and burning and it was familiar. It was that same intolerable level of pain that had been inflicted on him countless times. He had borne so many beatings and this similar agony would likewise need to be borne and suffered. He heard himself cry out at the fall of each wicked blow. His body twisted and wrenched against the ropes that held him, but the pain began to somehow help his mind retreat. Its overwhelming nature brought a strange clarity of its own; there was nothing but its dazzling, dizzying cruelty. He stood within it until he could take no more and the blinding white began to tip and roll and fade until he was nothing. 

When he came round, he and the chair had been righted. His feet were a screaming mess and he could feel they were tacky with blood. The pain was an appalling, ragged, burning thing; it felt like a fire had been set beneath them. He was just able to turn both feet onto their edges, taking the pressure off those bloodied, beaten soles. It gave some small relief.

The leader was sat in front of him, leaning back with his arms folded. 

“So, you don’t have a stash then.”

“I’ve told you,” Madeleine said, weakly.

“Yeah…” the man said with a sigh. 

He seemed resigned to the fact, finally, and Madeleine felt a wave of relief break over the pain.

“They do say it’s hard for a rich man to get into Heaven, don’t they?” the leader said.

Madeleine squeezed his eyes closed. “If by they you mean the Scriptures,” he said, wearily.

“Is that why you’ve given it all to the orphans and that? Trying to buy your way into His good books?”

Madeleine felt a stab of something in his stomach that was nothing to do with his captor and everything to do with his own guilt. That very question haunted him.

“Hit a nerve there haven’t I?” the man said. “Eh?”

Madeleine looked away and he heard him laugh.

“I’m the lucky one then, by your reckoning? ‘Cause I don’t have to worry about being rich?”

“No,” said Madeleine. “All men should worry about their place in the hereafter.”

The leader cocked his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I fear you are damned if you continue this,” said Madeleine.

A look of surprise ripped across the man’s face. “That’s a bit tart, coming from a man in your position.”

“You could have come to me.”

“You what?”

“Any of you, you could have come to me, in Montreuil. If you were in difficulty.”

“A hand-out for a sob story?”

“Or I could have offered you work, if you were willing.”

The ringleader stared at Madeleine. His eyes widened, his mouth fell open and he started to laugh. From an initial surprised chuckle, it grew and grew until he was cackling raucously. He seemed to have momentarily lost control of himself, his shoulders shook, his eyes streamed with tears of mirth and his arms were wrapped around his belly.

Madeleine felt a rush of humiliation heat his face. He was a fool. He was a fool to have tried to appeal to the soul of a man who appeared to have none.

With tears still rolling down his cheeks, the man began to get a grip on himself.

“That’s the best laugh I’ve had in ages,” he said, breathlessly. “Unbelievable. Here, lads!” he shouted, wandering over to his men. “You’ll never guess what. He just offered me a job!”

Madeleine heard more laughter as the man recounted their conversation to the rest of the gang.

“You’re damned,” Madeleine said softly and closed his eyes. “You’re damned.”

**Day Three**

Javert was having difficulty getting in through the door of his own police station. There was a throng of people clogging the doorway. When he did manage to get in, the entrance hall and corridors were lined with people chattering and gossiping. A scowl settled onto his face and he pushed his way towards the general office. He tried to spot one of his men amongst the crowd and after a time, he saw Augustine.

“What the hell is going on?” Javert asked, raising his voice over the noise.

“They’ve heard about the Mayor, sir.”

“For God's sake!" shouted Javert. "It’s supposed to be a confidential police matter! What have they all come here for?”

“For news. And they would like to help. Someone suggested they start a fund and the consensus was they should bring it to the police station.”

Javert stared at his subordinate in disbelief. This catalogue of civic idiocy and the way it had compromised his case made Javert’s blood boil. Someone jostled him, knocking him into Augustine and Javert had had about as much of this as he was going to take.

He climbed onto a chair and bellowed, “SILENCE!”

The hubbub ceased immediately and all eyes turned to the Inspector.

“Thank you for your concern. The matter is in the hands of the police and your… _attendance_ here is a distraction, however well intentioned. The police do not need donations. Go home.”

There were murmurs of disagreement and some catcalls, but when a few people did start to nudge their way towards the door, others began to follow.

Javert got down off the chair but was immediately approached by an old lady.

“Here,” she said, pressing a few coins into Javert’s hand. “It’s not much, I know. But he’s such a lovely man." There were tears in her rheumy blue eyes. "Such a lovely man," she muttered to herself.

Javert was still fuming, but he tried to speak calmly to her. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

“What you say?” the old lady asked, turning her left ear towards Javert.

Speaking loudly and slowly, he said, “I can’t accept your money.”

“It’s not for you,” the old lady said, affronted. “That’s for the Mayor’s fund.”

Javert, exasperated, shook his head and was about to snap a reply when Augustine swooped to his rescue. He scooped the old lady’s shoulders into an embrace of sorts and turned her towards the door.

“It is very kind of you,” Augustine said into the old lady’s ear. Now her back was turned, he picked up the coins from Javert’s palm and slipped them into the woman’s pocket.

He shepherded her out of the office, then returned to Javert’s side.

“That,” said Javert, “was a most welcome intervention.”

“An act deserving of a commendation, surely, sir?”

Javert quirked an eyebrow and Augustine just smiled at him. Capable and smart, Augustine’s dry humour was something that Javert occasionally enjoyed. He had grown up in the area and knew the town and its surroundings, which had been invaluable in Javert’s first weeks in his post.

Few people struck Javert as worth his time, but Augustine had the makings of a very fine officer. When the news had reached him of the Mayor’s abduction, Augustine had begun plotting out distances and timings on a map without any instruction from Javert, calculating how far they could have gone given the time elapsed, impressing Javert all over again.

Now the throng had dispersed, Javert could turn to the matter in hand.

“Your report, Augustine.”

“Sir, it is not the Mayor, but a body has been found in a ditch some three kilometres north west of Nouvion.”

They had been lent men from stations along Valjean’s route to assist with the search and some had been further seconded to Montreuil to assist with the investigation.

“That’s on his route from Paris,” said Javert.

“It is. The body is that of a male, 35-40 years old, well dressed and well nourished. It is currently being transported to the mortuary and it doesn’t appear to have been there for more than a day. However, found near the body was a bundle of clothing. Two coats, two waistcoats and two hats. The additional clothing is believed to belong to the Mayor.”

“Where is it?”

Augustine showed Javert to his desk, where a torn coat, a torn waistcoat and a hat were sitting.

“They appear to be his. I recognise the coat and the hat, I think. I have sent for his portress so that she can confirm.”

“Thank you, Augustine.”

“I’ve been thinking, sir,” said his officer.

“Good,” replied Javert. “Let’s hear it.”

“May we sit at your desk? It is to do with the ransom demand.”

Once they were seated, Augustine drew Javert’s attention to the flourish below the Mayor’s signature.

“I was thinking if I were in his position, what would I be trying to communicate? With just this.” Augustine traced his finger over the six swirls that enclosed the six dashes. “What _could_ I communicate?”

“Go on,” said Javert.

“When the body was found on the road from Paris, his clothing bundled with those of the Mayor’s, I began to think, how many men would you need to comfortably handle robbing two people? Especially the way this was done, the tearing of the coats by the roadside, you would need more than one or two.”

“The Mayor did not usually travel with a companion,” said Javert, “how would they know this time would be different?”

“I don’t think they did. Bear with me, sir. The Mayor was clearly targeted by a gang, who were expecting a man riding alone. When they saw he had someone with him, it _did not_ give them pause. I think they had enough numbers to make taking down two men as easy as taking down one.”

Javert was nodding.

“Which brings me back to this.” Augustine turned the ransom demand towards Javert. “What _could_ I communicate?”

Javert met Augustine’s eyes. “How many men were holding me,” he said.

Augustine nodded firmly. “I think that’s what this is.”

“You clever bastard,” muttered Javert.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be sure to tell my mother.”

Javert snorted. “I’m sure she already knows.”

A tap on the door and Javert nodded in one of his other officers. With him was Madame Bouchard, the Mayor’s portress.

“Mme Bouchard, thank you for coming.”

“I cannot believe this has happened.” Her face was pinched and pained and she had clearly been crying. “How could such evil fall on such a man?” 

“Indeed,” said Javert, the arch tone in his voice lost on those present.

“Please,” said Augustine, leading Mme Bouchard to his desk. “Can you examine these clothes and tell us if they belong to M. le Maire?”

He handed her the first the coat, which they believed belonged to the deceased man. She quickly put it to one side. Javert was impressed again with Augustine. He had not just shown her Madeleine’s clothes, as many of his officers might have. This way they could be certain of the strength of her identification.

She picked up the other coat and Javert could see her checking two or three places and then she examined the lining.

“This is his,” she said. Her voice was quiet and measured, though it was weighed down by a profound sadness.

“How can you be sure?” Augustine asked.

“Here,” she said, pointing to the lapel. “And here…” She showed him the lining. “I have mended this coat for him many times. You can see where I have made the repairs.”

“I can, Mme Bouchard. I am sorry you have had to do this unpleasant thing, but we are very grateful.”

There were tears in her eyes, but she was steadfast. “If it helps to find him safe, I would do it a thousand times.”

“Someone will show you out,” Augustine said. “Our thanks again, Madame.”

A little while later, Javert was taking the afternoon patrol. He had wanted some fresh air and frankly, he needed to get away from the office because a steady stream of well-wishers and busybodies were causing a constant nuisance.

As he crossed the town square, Javert was taken aback to see Agnès, one of the town’s more established streetwalkers, approaching him. Usually they scurried off in the opposite direction when they saw an officer of the law. This one was striding purposefully towards him, a grim expression on her grubby face.

“Bit early for the likes of you, isn’t it?” he said. “It’s still daylight.”

“Don’t be like that,” said Agnès. “I’ve got something for the Mayor.”

It was all Javert could do to stop himself rolling his eyes to the Heavens.

Agnès tried to set her chin, but it was trembling. “He came to my digs, with money for medicine when my baby was sick.”

“Did he really?”

“I don’t know how he knew about it, but he never wanted anything.” Tears were now running streaks down her filthy face. “No man has ever come to me, let alone to my room, and not wanted it. He just wanted to help my baby.”

“How marvellous,” Javert intoned.

“Now I want to help him. Me and some of the girls have got a bit of money together. It’s not very much, but it’s something.”

Javert took a deep, deep breath and then exhaled noisily. “I understand they are collecting at the Town Hall,” he said. “I suggest you direct your _generous_ donation to them. Good day.”

She skirted past him and Javert thought he heard her mumble the word ‘arsehole’. She was lucky that mouthy whores were the least of his concerns at the moment. On any other day, he’d have had her thrown in the cells for an overnight stay.

His mind turned to Valjean and this bizarre… what was it? He didn’t quite have the words for it. This… outpouring of affection _?_

It was staggering. Valjean had truly bewitched the whole town, as it would appear that from the lowest whore to the aldermen of the council, they were all beside themselves. Javert did feel a begrudging kind respect for the audacity of it, to decide to defraud an entire town and then pull it off. At the same time he felt repulsed by the deceit and a mixture of pity and contempt for the people of the town.

Still, it would be a real feather in his professional cap to bring the Mayor back safely and it would do his burgeoning reputation in the town no harm at all. This would then, of course, stand him in good stead for the inevitable unveiling of their Mayor as a wanted criminal.

That evidence would come. An opportunity would arise. Of that, Javert was sure.


	2. Chapter 2

**Day Five**

“You can write this one,” said the leader. “I’ll tell you what to put.”

Madeleine had been untied and he was sat down at the table. His ribs thudded dully and the soles of his feet sang in agony, but since that beating two days’ ago, they had not touched him since.

He began to write as the words were dictated to him. They were long, detailed instructions and complicated directions for the delivery of the ransom. Here and there Madeleine would place an accent incorrectly, misspell a word, or miss a letter out entirely. If taken together, the errors would spell out a few words, not perfectly, but possibly enough that they might be understood.

n e u f k m n o n o u v i o n f e r m e a n t a n

They had been ambushed approximately three kilometres north west of the small town of Nouvion and he estimated they had travelled about six kilometres further to the clearing. He hoped that ‘old farm’ might just be enough.

The illiterate leader looked over the letter and seemed pleased. There were no bloody enclosures this time, though Madeleine feared he might now be taken into the woods and shot, having served his purpose.

“You never married, did you?” the ringleader said, a long coil of rope now in his hand.

It would seem they were not quite done with him yet.

Madeleine shook his head as the man moved seats and sat down next to him.

“Me neither. Me and you are the same like that. My brother, Christ alive, the women that lad’s had. Nightmares every last one of them.” He started to arrange the rope over his knees. “What he sees in them, I can’t tell. Couldn’t fucking stand any of them, bitches and whores the lot of them.”

Madeleine wasn’t surprised by the colour of the man’s language, but he was by the invective. It was extreme and as if from nowhere.

“Yeah, you and me have got the right idea, eh?” the man continued. Having taken one end of the rope and formed a particular type of loop, he began to wind the shorter end of the rope around the centre of it. “Bachelors for life?”

Madeleine no longer heard him as his attention had entirely switched to the rope. As more and more turns were coiled around, it had become horrifyingly clear what it was that the man was fashioning. Madeleine’s mouth had run dry, though the urge to swallow was overwhelming.

They were going to hang him.

A strange steepling of his perspective occurred, a sense of him pulling up and out of himself. It only lasted a moment as a sharp slap across his face shocked him back.

“Don’t go off on me,” said the leader. “Lads! Get him up and get his hands tied behind him.”

He was pulled up out of the chair, his ribs and feet screaming at him, as his wrists were tightly bound behind his back.

Perhaps he should have struggled or resisted; provoking them into shooting him dead would be in preference to what they had in store. But something had stopped him, possibly his injuries, possibly the chance they would only have wounded him. Or perhaps it was a sense that this was what providence had written for him. Inside the fear and the panic, there was a strange sensation of calm. If he could go towards that and let it embrace him, he knew he would not be alone in his final moments.

“Now get on your knees,” he said. 

Madeleine was forced to kneel and now the ringleader was looking down at him, his eyes shining with evil. He pulled the loop of rope wider.

“Are you frightened?” the man asked, slipping the noose over Madeleine’s head. “You look frightened.”

The man drew the slipknot tight around Madeleine’s throat, so tight it began to bite into his skin.

“I like that,” the man breathed. He took the end of the rope and wound it two turns around his hand. “Yeah, I like it when I can see they’re terrified, my dick gets nice and big and hard.”

Fear for his life gave sudden way to a dread of a different nature. Madeleine recoiled at the prospect now in front of him.

“Now, tell me that you want it,” the leader said, his voice dripping with disturbing, conversational malevolence. “Look scared, but like you want it.”

Madeleine’s eyes flinched from the dark glare of this twisted, evil man and he found himself shaking his head.

“You don’t want to play? I don’t give a fuck.” He pulled the dagger from his boot and, yanking him forward by the noose, the tip of the blade was pressed into the angle of Madeleine’s jaw. “Fucking say it.”

Madeleine’s breathing, already shallow because of his ribs, began to quicken. His heartbeat slammed in his chest, it throbbed against the rope around his neck, it roared in his ears.

“I want it,” he heard himself say from a thousand miles away.

The leader replaced the dagger in his boot and began rubbing himself. “Yeah, I can tell. You want me to fuck you, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Madeleine, holding his tone flat and numb, whilst every nerve in his body screamed.

“Look at me.” The man grabbed Madeleine’s jaw and tilted his head upwards. “Look at me!”

With a huge effort, Madeleine made himself switch his gaze from the floor to the dancing, dangerous eyes of his captor.

“Oh yeah,” the man almost moaned, “that’s what I was on about, boys. Look at them big, brown eyes, all full of fear, but _begging_ for it.”

The man let go of his jaw and gave the rope a small pull.

“Get him up and bend him over the table.”

Madeleine’s arms were seized and he was dragged to his ruined feet. Pulled by the rope around his neck and shoved over by the men behind him, he was forced face down onto the table. His ribs shrieked as he hit the table top and he gasped in pain.

The leader took the end of the rope around the other side and pulled it tight, drawing Madeleine further across the table. The man bent down and secured the rope to the strut that braced the table legs. The noose was now desperately tight around Madeleine’s throat and to struggle would be to risk it tightening further. Madeleine lay helpless, hands bound, bent over the table, its edge digging into his hips. His heels were off the floor, the soles of his feet a ceaseless plainsong of pain.

“You lot, clear off,” the leader said. “You know how long to leave it.”

Madeleine heard their footsteps and then heard the door. He closed his eyes. He was resigned to what was about to happen, but he was stricken with piercing fear nonetheless.

The man reached around and undid the buttons of Madeleine’s trousers. He yanked them down and then trod them flat to the floor. Madeleine then felt his rough hand on his thigh. He shuddered and instinctively tried to move his hips away.

“Keep still,” said the leader, “I don’t want you moving. Keep very fucking still.”

Madeleine heard him step away for a moment. When he returned, the man’s fingers were pushing and probing and then they slid inside him, slicked with something cold. Madeleine gasped, the violation no less of a shock for knowing it was coming. 

“You are tight,” the man said, sliding his fingers in deeper, stretching him open. “Not had anyone, have you? Or not for a long while.”

Madeleine ground his teeth together as the leader slid in deeper, up to his knuckles and then pulled out. Madeleine crushed the memories that this was rousing. He could not afford for the ghosts and echoes of a different life to rise up and claim him.

“Tell me you want it,” said the man.

“I want it,” he said.

“I can tell you want it, you want it hard inside, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Madeleine, humiliation burning.

“Now, keep still. Keep still.”

Those rough hands were parting his buttocks and then he felt the cool, oiled tip of the man’s penis press into the heat of him. He was thick and Madeleine could feel himself resisting and stretching as the gang’s leader pushed his way in. He gasped and his body spasmed, a spontaneous reaction to the sensation as the man forced his full length inside him.

“Oh yeah… yeah, that feels good. Tell me,” said the man, breathless as he slid part way out and then thrust deeper in. “Tell me you want me inside you.”

Madeleine moaned as he felt something give way inside him. A long, narrow lance of pain pierced through him.

“You like that?” said his abuser, rocking into him harder. “Yeah, you do. You like it rough. Say it.”

He couldn’t speak for a moment, the pain rippling through him. “I… I like it,” he managed to gasp.

The man was thrusting into him hard, stretching him deep inside, touching on old scars that made Madeleine shudder.

“You’re loving this,” panted his captor, his hands holding onto Madeleine’s hips.

He was stretched so tight, so unbearably tight, he wanted to cry out on every single one of his abusers thrusts. He could feel himself tearing inside, hot streaks of pain that flared like a struck match whilst his ribs burned on every stroke as bone ground against bone. He was a mess of pain and shame and it was not over.

“Say you want it harder.”

“Please,” said Madeleine, just wanting it to stop. He turned his head away, as far as he was able.

“Please what?” said the man, bucking into him breathlessly. “Fuck me harder?”

“Yes,” said Madeleine, misery weighting down that single word.

The leader grunted with effort and his thrusting intensified. Madeleine cried out now. He didn’t care if this sick, twisted man mistook his pain for pleasure, because it was too much to bear in silence any longer.

The man had finally stopped talking, now moaning and gasping as he came, his seed spraying deep inside Madeleine. When he was spent, he wound slowly down with several long, slow rolls of his hips then finally, he withdrew.

Madeleine could have sobbed to have him gone from inside him. He ached in a way he had thought was long in his past and he had to violently shove those memories away.

He could hear the man panting and moving around. He felt a damp cloth wipe at his thighs and buttocks, then his trousers were pulled up and re-buttoned haphazardly.

The man flopped into one of the chairs that was in Madeleine’s eye line. Still bound across the table, he averted his gaze. He couldn’t look at the monstrous man who had violated him so brutally.

“Don’t look like that,” said the man. “You were loving it.”

Madeleine closed his eyes.

“Be like that then,” the leader said mildly and yawned. “The lads’ll be back soon, don’t worry. Then we’ll get you settled back in the big chair, M. le Maire.”

**Day Seven**

The flags had been lowered around town at noon the previous day.

There had been some discussion that M. Madeleine’s own funds should be used, but as there was no next of kin to authorise such a withdrawal, that was not going to offer the speedy solution that was required. The alternative, to not pay, was unconscionable to the council.

Money had already been offered and donated and so when it was made official, the full amount was raised and exceeded well within the four days specified in the ransom demand. Generous individual donations from members of the council, from the Mayor of Arras, from those who sat with him on the board of his charitable committees and many smaller amounts from the citizens of the town had all contributed to over twelve thousand francs being raised.

Javert was again staggered by the depths to which Valjean’s deception had penetrated. It was quite, quite astonishing.

He was sat with Augustine, on their latest night watch. They were across the street from the Town Hall, waiting for the next set of instructions to be delivered. The previous evenings had been quiet, unusually so, but the town was on edge. People were worried there were brigands hiding around every corner, so were staying indoors after sunset. It made Javert’s job easier as again, tonight, there was hardly a soul out. 

Augustine was sleeping. Javert would wake him at three am for his shift. The man had brought cold meats, cheese, bread and cold coffee. A midnight feast fit to keep a man alert throughout empty, boring hours.

Javert was just considering taking a cup of coffee when something caught his eye. A figure had emerged from the side street a few hundred metres from the Town Hall. It paused, looked around the square and then stepped out into the street. Javert nudged Augustine awake.

“We have movement,” he said to his sleepy subordinate.

Augustine wiped his eyes and roused himself. He leaned towards the window and peered out.

“I see him, sir,” he said, frowning into the darkness.

Javert could see the figure darting between lampposts, pausing in the shadows. As the furtive man approached the Town Hall, it was almost certainly their man.

Javert and Augustine moved outside, using the shadows themselves. They watched the man kneel and push something under the door of the Town Hall. 

It was always going to be difficult to follow the man undetected. That would have been the ideal situation, but he was constantly checking behind him. There would be little to no chance of following him all the way back to his accomplices, particularly under cover of darkness.

The moment that he was done the man was up on his feet, scouring the area. It was then Javert and Augustine broke cover and ran across the square. Half a dozen other officers emerged from their hiding places and converged on the startled criminal.

Pistols were drawn and orders shouted and after a moment of hesitation, the man put up his hands and faced the wall. He was cuffed and dragged back to the station.

Augustine was sent to retrieve the second note from the Town Hall and they convened back at the station a little before two am.

“I know this man,” said Augustine, casting his eyes over the man in the cell. “He’s… Étienne… Étienne Lemaitre.”

The man looked up and his lip curled in disdain. Javert could read there was history between the men; it was clearly written on both their faces.

“He can sweat in the cells for now,” said Javert. “We’ve got a letter to read.”

They retreated to the office, sat at Javert’s desk and opened the note.

“It’s written in Madeleine’s hand,” said Augustine.

Javert met his eyes and nodded at the implication. They pored over the letter, both of them seeing immediately a litany of unlikely mistakes that could only mean one thing.

Augustine fetched a sheet of paper and began to list all the errors.

“Oh my God,” he said as a message began to take shape.

Javert shook his head at Valjean’s resourcefulness and duplicity. The sly bastard had managed to write out a whole message right in front of his captors.

“Who do we have from around Nouvion?” Javert asked.

“Pascarel and Daguerre.”

“Get them in here now.”

“Sir.”

Javert got a map of the area and spread it on his desk. Augustine had placed a cross on it where the body had been found. Tracing out a further six kilometres, Javert marked a rough arc to the north-west. Valjean could only have given a rough of estimate of distance and direction, but with a little local knowledge, Javert hoped to narrow the search.

“If it were me, sir,” said Daguerre, tapping the map, “I’d choose the Maurin place. It’s off the main track by a few kilometres and the forest has well grown up around it.”

Pascarel was nodding. “The Bayard farm is ruins now, hardly a wall standing and Lafond’s is too public, the house fronts onto the crossroad.”

Javert nodded his appreciation to the men from Nouvion and then said, “Augustine, I think it’s time for you and M. Lemaitre to get reacquainted.”

The cell door was opened and Javert and Augustine entered. The prisoner looked up, spat and then went back to staring at the floor.

Augustine grabbed the man, yanked him to his feet and pressed him to the wall, his forearm across his throat.

“You will stand when the Inspector enters,” he said calmly.

Lemaitre scowled. “Fuck you.”

Javert strode over to the two men, drilling his gaze into Lemaitre’s eyes.

“We’re raiding the Maurin farm at dawn,” Javert said.

Lemaitre’s eyes flickered in astonishment and that was all Javert needed. He had seen in that moment recognition, shock and disbelief register on the man’s face.

Javert smiled and patted the man’s cheek. “Thank you for your co-operation.”

“I didn’t say anything, you bastard! You fucking bastard.” He was struggling against Augustine. “I didn’t say anything!”

“Settle down, Étienne,” cooed Augustine, shifting his arm higher up Lemaitre’s throat.

“I never said a word, you fucker!”

Javert turned back to his prisoner. “You’d better hope the rest of your gang believe that.”

Augustine shoved the man down onto the bench and followed Javert out of the cell. As they headed back towards the office, an idea occurred to Javert.

“Augustine, I have something to ask of you,” said Javert. “You have a similar build and colouring to Lemaitre.”

Augustine sighed and looked at Javert. “You want me to go to them in his place.”

“It might get them to lower their guard, if they think he’s arrived back with no trouble.”

Augustine nodded. “May I think about it?”

“You can, but I need your decision quickly. I want to be ready to move in less than an hour.”

“Thank you, sir.”

A rough plan of attack had been drafted earlier, but now with local knowledge and a certain location, Javert was able to finalise the details.

The briefing was called for two-thirty am and as his own men and those on secondment crowded the room, Javert felt a familiar excitement begin to swell in his chest. The anticipation of the chase and the thrill of capture were tangible things that a man could learn to crave.

When Augustine entered, dressed in Lemaitre’s clothes, there were a few whoops and whistles. He bowed to his audience with that wry smile of his playing on his lips, but Javert could see he had a deadly serious look in his eye.

Javert nodded to his man, whom he had not doubted for a moment, and began the briefing.

The cover of the woods was now to be used against the gang. Javert had sent two sections on ahead, to allow them to skirt around so as to cover the back of the house and woods.

His team had followed Augustine as far as the crossroad, then, with dawn brightening the sky, they had taken the woodland path and Augustine had ridden the last few kilometres alone.

Javert was keeping pace with Augustine as best as he could, but their path was less clear and direct and there were times he lost sight of his man.

When he next caught sight of Augustine, he had stopped and was stood in his stirrups, facing out across an old field that was being reclaimed by the woodland. It was the indication Javert had been waiting for. This was where the track-way to the old Maurin farm began.

Javert nodded to one of his men, who gave a short, trilling, bird-like whistle. Javert watched as Augustine sat down, having heard their signal. He moved off down the track, until once again, Javert lost sight of him as he disappeared into the trees.

They followed as closely and as quietly as they dared, until they began to get glimpses of the farmhouse through the trees.

Javert could now see Augustine, who had slowed his horse to less than a walk. His team, still in the deep cover off to the west of the track-way, now overtook Augustine.

His team tied up their horses some way off and proceeded on foot, taking up their place on the very edge of the wood. They had an excellent view across the farmyard and the house beyond.

All appeared quiet. There were five horses tethered in the ramshackle yard and Javert hoped their stomping and occasional whinnying would not alert the gang to their presence.

Javert’s man gave that whistle again, bird-like and shrill, it carried sweetly on the cool morning air.

Minutes later, long, tense, stressful minutes later, Javert saw Augustine approaching on Lemaitre’s horse.

He dismounted on the edge of the clearing, keeping the body of the horse between him and the farm house. Augustine pulled down the brim of his hat and then began to examine the hind leg of the horse, as if it had gone lame.

Javert strained to hear, as he thought he had heard a voice from inside the farmhouse. Moments later, a tallish thug with dirty blond hair emerged from the building.

“Étienne!” the man called out, wandering over to his ‘comrade’. “You have made excellent time.”

He was now standing over the crouched figure of Augustine.

Fast and strong and with the butt of his pistol in his hand, Augustine sprang up, swinging his fist. The powerful uppercut slammed into the man’s jaw. It connected with a sickening smack that Javert heard from across the yard.

As the blond-haired man crumpled into Augustine’s arms, Javert gave the signal and his man let out a piercing whistle that split the air.

Javert’s team broke cover and burst through the front door. He heard his second team breaking in through the back, while his third spread out around the farm.

The shock on the faces of the three men at the table was a thing that Javert would savour for a long time. One reached for his pistol but was struck by a flying tackle from one of the men from Arras. A second bolted for the back door, only to be wrestled to the ground by an incoming pair of Javert’s own men. The third man had stood up but then done nothing, apparently rooted to the spot. He was thrown to the floor, cuffed and then pulled back onto his feet.

The fourth man had been sat next to Valjean when the raid had begun. Small and rat-like, he was now holding a dagger to Valjean’s throat. Bound to a chair, Valjean’s eyes were hooded and dark, and long, tangled strands of hair hung in his face. 

“One more step,” the man said to Javert, “and I’ll split him open.”

“Put the knife down,” Javert ordered.

“Nah, you put the guns down.”

Javert instead chose to level his pistols at the man’s head.

“Put the knife down, or I will put you down,” said Javert, ice cold.

As the rest of the gang were secured in the yard, more of Javert’s men entered the room. There were now almost a dozen officers crowded into the small farmhouse.

It took a few more seconds for the man to weigh his limited options. Then he crouched down and placed the knife on the floor.

Javert’s men seized him, cuffed him and dragged him out of the house, shouting and cursing as he went.

His men left at his signal, leaving Javert alone with the stricken Valjean.

“Well, well, well,” Javert said, approaching the chair. “You appear to have had quite the ordeal, M. le Maire.”

There were days’ worth of stubble on his sunken cheeks, dark circles under his eyes, cuts and bruises marred his face and there was what appeared to be a burn mark on the side of his throat. His feet were bare and bloodied.

Valjean closed his eyes but didn’t reply.

“Are you injured?” Javert asked.

“My ribs are broken,” he said, indicating the left side with a tilt of his head. “The soles of my feet have been beaten.”

Javert nodded. “Can you walk?”

“Yes.”

Javert knelt in front of him and began to untie the rope around Valjean’s ankles. Javert lifted each foot in turn and grimaced at the state of the lacerated flesh. The soles of his feet were filthy with blood and dirt.

“Are you sure you can walk?”

“Yes,” came the exhausted reply.

“As you wish.” Javert went around to the back of the chair and untied the knots that bound Valjean’s upper arms.

He stood back in front of Valjean, looking down at the man whose wrists were still tied tightly to the arms of the chair. 

“You do not seem grateful or relieved,” he said, increasingly confused and irritated by Valjean’s numbed reactions.

There was silence for a time. “I cannot say what I feel,” Valjean said, staring at nothing as Augustine entered the room. 

“M. le Maire,” said Augustine, “may I assist you?”

He began to untie Valjean’s left wrist. Javert untied his right and between the two of them they helped him to stand and walk unsteadily to the door. He was leaning heavily on them both and Javert, with his arm wrapped around Valjean’s waist, could feel the bones of the man’s hip beneath his hand. If he had been fed, he had been on starvation rations only.

Augustine called for the carriage to be brought as close as possible and after a slow, painful walk across the yard, they helped him into the back.

The jailer’s wagon had already been moved into the yard and the gang were being loaded in. Some struggled a little, some went meekly, the leader went in spitting Lemaitre’s name and cursing him to hell and back.

Javert smiled and climbed into the carriage with Valjean, leaving Augustine to finish up at the scene.

They pulled away, the carriage jostling on the old, rutted track way. Valjean grimaced on every jolt, his arm around his ribs.

“We will be in Nouvion shortly,” Javert said. “We will get you some food and water and refresh the horses. Then we will make our way back to Montreuil.”

Valjean didn’t appear to have heard him. 

Javert regarded him coolly. “Are you able to answer some questions?” he asked, raising his voice.

Valjean looked up at him, raising his eyes slowly from the floor of the carriage. He looked utterly drained, but he nodded nonetheless.

“Were any of the men known to you?”

Valjean shook his head.

“Are you certain of that?” Javert asked, pointedly. The possibility these were spectres from Valjean’s past had crossed Javert’s mind early in the investigation. The implication of his question was not wasted on Valjean, as for the first time since his rescue, emotion flared across those wide, dark eyes.

“Quite certain,” Valjean said. Though he looked thoroughly despondent, there was a definite bite to that reply that sounded... almost mayoral.

His withdrawn demeanour had rattled Javert and if he was honest with himself, that had taken some of the shine off the day. Now, having stoked that familiar fire of defiance in the man, Javert could warm himself against it.

“Of course, M. le Maire,” said Javert, regarding Valjean with an unblinking gaze. “What was I thinking?” 

Valjean shook his head in reply, but it was weary and slow and deliberate. It seemed to say, ‘Don’t you dare’ rather than, ‘I don’t know’.

Javert smiled thinly at him. This was more like it.

“You were travelling with a gentleman when you were ambushed about three kilometres outside of Nouvion, is that correct?”

“It is. They had dragged a fallen tree across the road.”

Javert nodded. “Which of them murdered M. Marchand?”

Valjean looked up at Javert, his expression softening. “Was that his name?” he asked.

“It was. Did you not know it?”

“No, to my shame,” he said, quietly. “We had only been acquainted for a short number of hours. He… spoke well and fully, so we did not get around to an exchange of names. It is something I regret greatly.”

Javert observed this strange display with a measure of suspicion. He did not feel Valjean was lying, exactly, but he could not work out what this contritious act might possibly be in aid of.

“Which of them killed him?” Javert asked, bluntly.

“The ringleader,” Valjean said. “He is cruel and dangerous. He killed him in cold blood.”

“I am sure you feel such men should be punished and imprisoned.”

“For such crimes as theirs, yes.”

“For all crimes?”

There was silence from Valjean.

“For all crimes, M. le Maire, surely?” Javert prodded.

“We have had such discussions before, Inspector.”

“We have indeed.”

“Then you know my thoughts on these matters," Valjean said, abruptly. "I need not repeat myself here.”

Javert bowed his head, outwardly accommodating, inwardly seething at being put so sharply in his place. Javert looked down at Valjean’s bloodied feet.

“The injuries you have suffered are not what I would describe as usual. I would describe them as torture.”

Valjean was silent for a time before nodding. “As would I,” he said.

“What did they want?”

Valjean smiled bitterly. “To know where the safe with the thousands of francs was kept.”

Javert frowned. He did not recall ever seeing a safe at the factory.

“It was something dreamed up by his imagination,” said Valjean, by way of an explanation. “He was certain it existed. He seemed consumed by the notion.”

Javert nodded. “Such things can claim a man’s mind for their own.”

Valjean fixed him with a sudden, blistering stare. “So I have learned,” he said, his tone tinder dry and as harsh as a Toulon heatwave.

Javert wasn’t startled by this flash of anger, but he was greatly affronted by it. That this criminal should spit such bitterness at him, after Javert had risked his men and his life to save him, was repellent. Javert could feel himself glowering at the creature across the carriage. With a superhuman effort he crushed down those feelings of disgust and repulsion and pushed away the urge to denounce him at the top of his voice. Javert took a few moments and then returned himself to the matter in hand. It had taken an act of will to calm himself in the presence of such provocation and he took some measure of pleasure in his self-discipline.

“I must say, the messages you hid in the ransom demands were most impressive. A sleight of hand worthy of the most _deceptive_ of conjurers, one might say.”

Valjean’s eyes were still spitting fire but his mouth stayed silent.

“To have such presence of mind, to have such cunning, whilst under so much pressure. To have the bravado to pull off something like that, under people’s very noses…”

Javert let the sentence hang in the air. Valjean could finish it for himself and swing from its implications.

They had a long journey ahead of them and Javert was content for the moment that it continue in silence.

**Home**

“It is not necessary. I should like to go home,” Madeleine insisted, as their carriage drew into Montreuil.

It was late in the afternoon and the sun was streaming through the carriage window.

“You are in no state,” Javert said. “We are going to the Infirmary.”

When they arrived, Javert helped him down from the carriage, only for Sister Simplice to hurry out to meet them.

“Oh dear Lord,” she said, shock all over her face. “What have they done to you?”

She was at his side in a moment, taking Javert’s place and helping him inside, guiding him to the nearest free bed.

“Nothing so bad,” Madeleine said, wincing as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“The injuries are not severe,” said Javert. “They are, however, unpleasant and need attending to.”

“They will be, Monsieur. He will have the best of care.” 

“Then I will take my leave,” said Javert. “Sister. M. le Maire.”

She turned to him as Javert left. “We have sent for the doctor, he will be here as soon as he is able.”

“There was no need, a few days’ rest –”

“The doctor is coming,” she said, gently. 

She had set a large bowl of water, cloths and bandages by the bed and she knelt before him and began to unwind the makeshift dressings from his feet. As the wounds were revealed he could see her face crease with distress. She began to bathe his wounds in the warm, salt water. As she gently took the dirt and dust and dried blood from his feet, Madeleine felt deeply ashamed. This woman of God should not be on her knees, washing his feet. It felt so wrong, so very wrong. The sharp bite of the salt and then the sting of the salve she applied sent shivers of pain through the soles of his feet. That at least gave him something to hold on to against the shame. She bandaged both feet with fresh dressings and then she fetched a bowl of clean water.

He could not look at her as she bathed the cuts and bruises on his face. His eyes would not leave the floor, so deep was his embarrassment.

The ropes had left deep marks and bruises around his ankles and wrists and Sister Simplice next washed and gently tended to those, cleaning the places where the skin had been broken.

“I need to bind your ribs,” she said, softly. “May I?”

She moved to show he needed to take off his shirt.

“You don’t need to do that,” Madeleine said, profoundly uncomfortable.

“I can tell you are favouring your left side.” Sister Simplice looked at him with such sorrow and concern, he could not hold her gaze.

“Please,” she said. “Do not worry.”

“I am able to tend to that myself. Do not trouble yourself.”

“It is no trouble, please, let me help you with your shirt.”

“I would prefer you not to.” He was quickly becoming panicked by her sweet insistence to help him.

“We tend to men here too, as you know, so please do not worry for that.”

He put his hand over hers as she reached for the hem of his shirt.

“Sister, there is no need,” said Madeleine, more sternly than he had intended.

“Père Madeleine, it is filthy. If you will forgive me, you are filthy and from all I have seen, you cannot wash yourself.”

“I cannot permit it!” he shouted, his aching ribs spiking into a stab of pain.

The shock on her face was as if he had slapped her. He felt immediate, burning remorse for the harshness with which he had spoken and for his carelessness for his surroundings.

How could he tell her that cracked ribs were no excuse for a convict not to labour in the quarry? That he had broken rocks with worse injuries under a blistering sun? How could he tell her that the rope marks on his wrists were as nothing to the daily chafe of iron against flesh, flesh that soon wore away beneath the cold, cruel metal? How could he tell a gentle woman such as this of the violation he had suffered and that it was simply one of many? How could he allow her to bind his ribs, when that would reveal the scars of a thousand lashes?

How could he tell her that her care and her compassion and her concern were more painful to him than the injuries he had suffered? 

“I am sorry,” he said, for it was all he could say. “I am so very sorry.”

Sister Simplice was now regarding him with such kindness and empathy, it hurt to look at her. He could do nothing but lower his eyes and ask for her forgiveness.

“There is nothing to forgive, Père Madeleine,” she said. “I should have heard what you were telling me.”

His eyes flickered up to meet hers for a moment. Her calm, steady, steadfast manner was going to be the undoing of him.

She drew the white curtains around his bed and sat next to him. She folded his hands into hers and when she spoke, her voice was so soft it was barely a breath, for they were words that only he should hear; _what did they do to you?_

The distress and pain and degradation of the last days had worn him down to an exhausted shell. The emotions he had fought so hard to hold back were breaking through. His throat was aching, his eyes were burning and, wrapped in the wounding compassion of Sister Simplice, he broke down completely and began to sob.

His distress had been so great and his insistence so unwavering that Sister Simplice had finally had to relent and allow him to wash himself and bind his own ribs. He was sure he had done a poor job of it, but it had been completed. The difficulty and the discomfort had been great and it had taken him almost an hour to complete the task. The clean nightshirt she had left for him was a struggle to put on, but once that was accomplished, Madeleine felt he could finally relax in some small degree.

He opened the curtains around his bed and Sister Simplice brought him a hearty portion of thick stew and a large piece of bread. He ate it gratefully and then he let her help him into bed. There were extra pillows which would allow him to rest with a measure of comfort.

To be clean, to be safe, to have food in his stomach and a bed to rest in felt like a kind of unreal paradise. He was able to sleep, finally, and he did not wake until well into the next morning.

What woke him was the sound of slightly raised voices, one of which belonged to Sister Simplice. The unlikeliness of that made Madeleine wonder for a moment if he was dreaming. Even more surprising was the person she was speaking to. It was his good friend Robert, who was not taking no for an answer.

“I understand,” Robert was saying. “I do, I would just like to see him for a few minutes.”

“Monsieur, this is the third time you have been back this morning,” Sister Simplice said. “He is sleeping and he desperately needs to rest.”

“Please, please, Sister. I need to see him. I have no intentions of waking him, I assure you.”

Madeleine sat up with some difficulty. “It is a little late for that, Robert,” he said.

Robert’s eyes lit up and he swept past the exasperated Sister.

“Oh, my friend, my dear, dear friend!” Robert cried out as he sank to his knees beside the bed. He grasped Madeleine’s hand and pressed it to his forehead. “I thought we had lost you. Oh dear God, I thought we had lost you.”

Madeleine was stuck with a wave of intense and unexpected emotion. Selfishly, he had not thought as to the impact his ordeal would have on those who considered him their friend. Guilt flooded his mind as Robert muttered heartfelt prayers of thanks for his safety.

“Robert, please,” said Madeleine, feeling horribly guilty and incredibly awkward. “At least sit, I cannot have you on your knees beside me.”

Robert finally let go of his hand and pulled over a chair.

“I am sorry to have woken you, truly. I… had to see you, for myself. I had to see you, I am sorry.”

“Don’t distress yourself,” said Madeleine. “You can see I am fine.”

Robert looked at him in disbelief. “You are far from fine! After what those _bastards_ did to you, how can you say you are fine?”

He had never heard his friend curse before. “Robert, remember where you are,” Madeleine said, quietly.

“Though I would rather you like this, than how I had imagined…” Robert blinked back tears. “In my darkest moments, I feared I would never see you again.”

“Come now,” said Madeleine. His words were choked with tears of his own, which he was desperately trying to fight back.

“I did not mean for this to happen,” said Robert, wiping harshly at his eyes. “I have made a scene and I have upset you. Please forgive me, I am a fool.”

Madeleine took a moment to recover his composure. “You are far from a fool, Robert. I cannot imagine the worry you have had.”

“Even so, I have been remiss in my behaviour. I shall apologise to Sister Simplice, I have been a pain these last few hours.” Robert looked thoughtful and then he smiled to himself. “You know, this morning, she has reminded me of nothing so much as a goose.”

Madeleine looked blankly at his friend. “A goose?” he asked.

“They say that geese make the best guard dogs,” Robert explained. “She is like a goose, with those wide, white wings, protecting you ceaselessly.”

Madeleine smiled at the image, though he was a little confused. “Why would I need her protection?”

Robert looked at him with a softness that was hard to bear. “You have no idea, do you?” he said, with a wondrous shake of his head.

“I do not, I confess.” Madeleine was baffled as to what Robert might be referring to.

“When you are better and feeling up to a short walk, I will show you, my friend. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Madeleine, uncertain as to what it was he had just assented to.

After a few days’ rest, Madeleine was strong enough to be allowed home for a few hours. To his mild vexation, Robert was still being evasive, but he was looking forward to his visit and to being allowed outside in the fresh air. 

He heard Robert greet the sister at the door, but as his friend entered Madeleine’s face fell.

He was pushing an invalid chair. It had a wooden frame with a back, seat and footrest made from neatly woven cane. Two large wooden-spoked wheels were to the sides, with a single smaller wheel at the back.

“Robert, really?” said Madeleine, crestfallen.

“What did the doctor say?” Robert said, as if speaking to a child.

Madeleine huffed. “Not to walk as my feet have not yet healed.”

“And what did Sister Simplice say?”

“The same and that I should listen to the doctor.”

“Hence,” said Robert, with a flourish, “your carriage, Monsieur.”

Madeleine regarded the conveyance with suspicion. “It will have… terrible trouble on the cobbles,” he said.

“That has been taken care of,” Robert said, mysteriously. “Your ribs will not be jarred.”

He looked at Robert, then at the chair and then gave a resigned shake of his head. He was, in all honesty, still far too tired to put up much resistance. He let Robert help him off the bed and into the chair.

“There we go,” said Robert, tucking a blanket over Madeleine’s knees before wheeling him out of the ward.

When they got to the front door, Robert bumped his chair gently down the step. The wheels then connected not with uneven cobbles, but with wood. Madeleine looked down as Robert turned him to the right. A wide, flat platform had been made. It looked like a section of floorboards had been deposited in the street. Three youths were laying down another section, butting it up against the first. As Robert wheeled him over the first, that was collected, placed in front of the second and so on, creating a smooth roadway over the cobbles.

“This is ridiculous,” muttered Madeleine, as he began to see eyes and heads turn towards the unusual activity.

“It’s not ridiculous when I’m getting twenty sous!” said one of the boys, laughing.

Someone across the street pointed and shouted, “Père Madeleine!” and began to hurry over.

Others had also begun to cross towards him until there was a group around his chair and they could go no further.

His hand was grasped and given a firm shake by one man.

“Glad to see you out and about, Père Madeleine.”

His other hand was taken by an older lady, her thin, crinkled fingers closing tightly around his. “God bless, you, sir,” she said. “God bless you.”

Another man took his hand and shook it. “Can’t say how happy we all are, to have you back, M. le Maire.” The man had tears in his eyes.

“You’ll be up and about in no time, you mark my words,” said Pierre, the butcher. “A few good meals inside you,” the man said and winked. “That’s what you need.”

Faces crowded in on him, looming over him, as his hands were passed from person to person, his arms were squeezed, his shoulders were patted, a young woman leaned down and kissed him on both cheeks, a young boy hugged his legs.

He smiled as best he could as more faces pressed in and he thanked them stiffly for their concern and for their well-wishes. He knew most of the faces and he knew many of their names. They were decent, hardworking townsfolk but he wanted nothing more than to be out of this suffocating free-for-all.

Robert must have either sensed his discomfort or decided things were getting a little silly, as he coughed loudly and started to push forward.

“Let us through, now,” Robert said. “Make some room, make some room.”

The crowd parted reluctantly and Madeleine had to endure further sturdy handshakes and then a kiss from old lady before their way was cleared and the boys could resume their board-laying.

As they made their way the short distance to Madeleine’s home, people were waving, shouting out greetings and still coming over, expressing their relief and their joy at his return.

Madeleine acknowledged their good wishes with a brief nod and a fixed smile and then he pursed his lips and put his head down, as if avoiding eye contact might make the last few hundred metres of their journey less distressing.

As they approached his home, he could see that Laurent, the cabinet maker, was walking towards them, stowing his tools in the loops that hung from his belt.

“M. le Maire,” he said, taking off his cap. “I can’t do much, but I hope that’ll help till you’re back on your feet.”

He stood to one side and Madeleine could see the man had built a wooden ramp up over the several steps into his home.

“On behalf of me and the wife," Laurent said, "we wanted you to know, we were ever so grateful for what you did for our little one, God rest him.”

Madeleine couldn’t speak, he was close to being overwhelmed. He could only nod and when Laurent offered his hand, Madeleine clasped it in both of his and held it firmly.

“I’ll be on my way,” Laurent said and, with a nod of his head, he took his leave.

Madeleine felt Robert’s hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s get you inside,” his friend said.

Mme Bouchard had opened the door ready for them. Robert gave the chair an extra push and they rolled easily up the ramp and into the sanctuary of Madeleine’s home.

Robert wheeled him into the main room where Madeleine found himself staring, uncomprehending at the large table that had been brought into the room. It was laden as if for a harvest festival.

“People have been bringing things for you,” Mme Bouchard said. “We had to make somewhere for it, the pantry had become full.”

It was mainly food; fruit, vegetables, loaves of bread, baskets of eggs and several parcels in waxed paper that could only be from Pierre. There were also clothes and blankets and there was a child’s wooden cart, a small, painted toy with a string to pull it along by. Madeleine recognised it immediately.

He had bought it for a little boy at the Christmas fayre, as his mother had been unable to afford it. He picked it up, the polished green paint was now scratched and scuffed and the wheels were chipped and worn. Madeleine ran his hands over the battered little wagon. The dents and scrapes showed it had been well used and well loved in a way that only a five-year-old boy could. He set it back down and turned away from the table.

“I don’t want these things here,” he said, his vision swimming with tears. “Can something be done? Give them away or… something.”

He saw that she had glanced at Robert before answering. “Of course, I will see to it,” Mme Bouchard replied.

“And the toy cart,” he said, “it should go back to little Fabien Pellous.”

“I will make sure of it, M. Madeleine,” she said.

When she had left them, Robert wheeled him over to the fireplace and sat down next to him. He was watching him intently, but Madeleine could not meet his friend’s eyes.

“Now do you see?” Robert asked, quietly.

Madeleine did see. He saw with a clarity that was overpowering. He did not know what to do with this revelation. He did not know how to process what Robert had shown him. He was engulfed in an ocean of emotion he had no name for. He had no experience, no history, no knowledge of this to fall back on. There was a tightness building in his chest and there was something close to panic in his mind.

He pressed his left sole into the footrest of the chair. It was the more badly injured and the worst of the wounds were still open. The searing pain that resulted burned its way to the forefront of his brain. At the same time, he breathed in deeply which caused his ribs to flare white hot. 

“Are you in discomfort?” Robert asked, leaning forward in concern.

Madeleine shook his head whilst he continued to make pain the thing he had to deal with.

Because that, at least, was something he did know how to do.


End file.
